The Dancing Doctor
by kiliunderthemountain
Summary: John has a date, which involves taking her to dance. The doctor has two left feet, and so Sherlock decides to help him on this issue. - Second part is Post-Reichenbach. I apologize for your feels. Warning: Rated T for self harm, character death, and hallucinations. Currently a one-shot, might turn into a story.


**So this was just an idea that sprung up when the song 'Claire de Lune' came up on my teacher's iPod during Spanish. I apologize in advance for your feels and your sobs. **

**Warning: Self harm, character death, hallucinations.**

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It had been on one of those days.

One of those days in which the only thing you would want to do is stay in bed and snuggle up with your loved one. The cold air drifted slowly through the flat, as the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes lay on the sofa, blanket wrapped tightly around his thin body.

The detective was bored. Well, when wasn't he? He lowered the book to look over at the door to John's room, where some strange sounds were coming from. Hesitantly, he got up and knocked on the door, letting himself in immediately without awaiting authorization. What he saw was a very messy John, one sleeve of a purple shirt on one arm and the sleeve of a blue one on the other. Sherlock chuckled, leaning back on the doorframe.

John had a date tonight, with one of his many acquaintances. It wasn't rare for him to go out every Friday night, despite the weather or his mood. Sherlock cleared his throat, and chuckled softly as a very startled John Watson turned to look at him with wide eyes.

"I like the blue one" he said, getting a small rising of an eyebrow from John. He sighed, and tried again. "I think the blue one looks better" he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. John seemed to realize that he was still wearing two shirts, and shrugged off the purple one, buttoning it quickly.

"Nervous?" Sherlock asked simply, looking over at John. He nodded, looking down at the floor.

"She wants to go dancing. Not even normal dancing but a ball" he said, putting a hand on the nape of his neck. Sherlock didn't really realize the problem until he saw John's sigh as he was looking down at his feet, and he couldn't help but smirk a bit as he did.

"Two left feet?" he claimed, raising his eyes to catch John's. It was long since John had felt impressed from one of Sherlock's deductions, and so he just nodded, blushing slightly. "My first school ball was a disaster, spilled a drink all over her" he muttered, and Sherlock smiled. This woman must be special to John if he was willing to go, even if it meant making a buffoon out of himself. Sherlock felt a small pang of compassion, and he smiled softly as John raised his gaze.

"Come" he said, walking off into the hall. John followed hesitantly, eyeing Sherlock with a suspicious gaze as he moved to their small CD player. The initial tunes of 'Claire de Lune' by Debussy sounded, and John immediately recognized it. Sherlock had turned back and was walking towards him now, slowly until they were in front of each other. John looked up at Sherlock as he placed one of his hands on his hip, and he furrowed his brows. "Sherlock I…" he began, only to be stopped by being pulled slightly, moving to the rhythm of the music. They moved slowly, one of Sherlock's hands on John's waist and the other holding his hand, moving slowly across the floor in the living room of 221b. John managed to relax, looking up at Sherlock who seemed to have his eyes closed. He admired his features for a few seconds, nearly tripping over his own feet as he did so. Sherlock's pale skin contrasted perfectly with his black curls, framing his face in an almost angelic way. He looked peaceful with his eyes closed, almost like a child trying to find his way into sleep. John didn't notice that Sherlock had opened his eyes, and was staring intently at him. He just smiled, continuing to move to the soft rhythm of the music. As the final tunes of the song began to play softly, Sherlock took John and pulled him close, finishing off the dance with an intense gaze, full of care. For that moment, John felt as if he were at home. He was in the arms of his best friend, and he had a huge urge to stretch up and close the small amount of space between their lips, to press his lips to Sherlock's. But they couldn't, they wouldn't. So they just stood there, looking at each other just to be interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

"I'm coming" John muttered, pulling his hand abruptly from Sherlock's. He cleared his throat and turned to take his jacket, and when he turned Sherlock was already splayed out on the sofa again. He sighed, and moved over to stand next to him. "Uh… thanks" he muttered nervously. Sherlock had just nodded, smiling slightly and gesturing for him to go on to his date. Throughout the whole night, the only thing John Watson could think about was his learning to dance with his best friend.

- 7 Months Later -

John stood up from his chair slowly, almost as in pain. And he was, physically and emotionally. It had been 2 months, 2 months since the loss of the detective. 2 months since the suicide of the genius. 2 months since the day he lost his best friend. Taking his newly acquired cane he stood, moving towards the kitchen to get himself some more tea. On his way there he pushed the play button on his old, abandoned CD player. He hadn't used it in a long time, which explained the notes that flowed out of the worn speakers. With a sharp turn he turned to glare at the player, his eyes burning with the oncoming pressure of tears. It was the song, _their_ song. His and Sherlock's, the one they'd danced to that night.

For a second, John saw him. Saw his tall, imposing figure in the living room of 221b. His familiar smirk posed on his face as if admiring something obvious, which a normal human's brain could not catch. Smirking at life, at the simple of the most complex things. That was his Sherlock standing in their living room, swaying gently to the music. John dropped his mug, the small porcelain utensil shattering into small pieces on the floor. He didn't care, didn't even wince. John moved slowly out of the kitchen, with small movements as if afraid that with one too sudden move, his Sherlock would disappear, this time forever. It was not uncommon for John to have hallucinations of his partner, in those times when the sadness overwhelmed him he'd submerge himself into his memories of the tall man, eventually turning those images in his brain into images in reality. But of course, these were unreal, just like the hope of a child. Sherlock was gone, long gone and not coming back. He'd refused to admit it for the first few weeks, but then he realized. Why would he bother come back? There's nothing much for him here other than me. And I'm nothing, zero, a tool. Those were the days in which he'd pressed a blade to his skin, leaving red marks across the tender flesh. Seeking anything that would release him from the pain of his loss, any feeling. He kept shuffling closer to the swaying image in his living room, the cane he used to walk now discarded. When he saw these images it gave him strength, the thought that Sherlock hadn't left him. He was able to pick himself up, leave the cane that demonstrated his weakness and dependence on the detective and stand upright. But then the mirages would vanish, and he'd be alone again. Holding onto the wall for support. The image kept smirking, his eyes shining as he saw John walking without the cane. "I told you you didn't need it" he heard a voice say, a soft blend between Sherlock's voice and a fading version of an echo. John just smiled, and moved to stand in front of his Sherlock. "That was when you were here" he whispered. The Sherlock vision looked down at him, moving to place a hand on his cheek. They both remained silent, until the cold hand of the mirage moved to place his hand on John's waist, pulling him into a soft sway to the music. The notes trickled on, moving too quickly for John's liking towards the end of the song. The final note lingered in the air, and he didn't let go, wouldn't let go of Sherlock's hand. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he cleared it away quickly, looking up at Sherlock. "Don't go" he managed to choke out in a whisper. "Please, don't leave me again". His Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in sadness, and closed his own eyes, John already feeling him slipping away. "I won't" the voice said, and John studied his face. It was the exact face of Sherlock's, the pale face contoured by the dark curls, the thick lips and features. Without thinking he moved up and planted a kiss on the mirage's lips, only to feel cold air where Sherlock's soft, flesh lips would have been. He opened his eyes, and let out the sob he didn't know he'd been holding. It was gone, gone once again and leaving him alone to fend for himself. John stumbled backwards, falling into one of the chairs. He cried into his hands, the images of Sherlock falling flickering in front of his eyes over and over, a never-ending terror movie. He couldn't, he just couldn't keep on going without having his only real friend. The most amazing human being he'd ever had the luck to meet. John looked up, removing his hands from his face.

His eyes were stone cold and calculating. He could make it end, end this pain. Quickly, he stood and moved to take his cane, stumbling into the kitchen. He threw the cane to the other side of the room, holding onto the counter for support, knuckles white. He stretched his arm out to take one of his sharpest kitchen knifes, thing which he'd done several times in the past. Only this time he didn't reach for his wrist, to leave yet another pattern of red lines across his skin. This time, he went for his neck. Being a doctor, he knew where one of the most crucial veins in a human body was located. He placed the blade of the knife over the pulse point on his neck, pressing softly and feeling the soft sting of the sharp, cold blade on his warm skin. He pressed harder, drawing a drop of blood. That's when he saw it.

It was just a coincidence, really. The fact that he'd moved his head in that direction in the first place, looking around his home, home which felt so empty with only one. It was a red piece of paper, standing out against the red of the white counter, taped with a small piece of scotch. Curiosity got the best of him, and he limped over to the spot, yanking the note off. His eyes turned watery as he read the note, the familiar scribbled handwriting stretching along the half piece of paper. It was just three words, the three words in that handwriting which had saved his life. Saved him some hope.

_Keep Holding On._

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**Thanks for reading! There might be a second part to this, depends if I get enough interest in it.**

**Once more, I apologize for your feels. I wasted a whole roll of toilet paper while writing this.**

**Reviews are love!**

**{Janet Martin}**


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